. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  TREES 
6OTHER  POEMS  :  ESSES, : 


LAMSON.WOLfFE6CQ 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
WILLIAM  BRIGGS.  TORONTO 


Copyright,  1895, 

By  Lamson,  Wolffe,  &  Co. 

All  rights  reserved. 


ur  533.4. 


To  F.  B. 


762879 


Many  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  are  printed  here  for 
the  first  time;  several,  however,  have  appeared  in  either 
the  "  New  York  Independent,"  the  "  New  England  Mag- 
azine," the  "Youth's  Companion,"  the  "  Toronto  Week," 
or  the  "  Travelers'  Record,"  and  to  their  editors  thanks 
are  due  for  permission  to  reprint  them. 


Contents 


The  House  of  the  Trees  Page  3 

The  Sun  on  the  Trees  4 

Moonlight  5 

Pine  Needles  6 

The  Sound  of  the  Axe  7 

The  Prayer  of  the  Year  9 

The  Hay  Field  10 

Twilight  12 

The  Sky  Path  13 

Fall  and  Spring  14 

The  Woodside  Way  15 

A  Rainy  Day  16 

When  Twilight  Comes  17 

Leafless  April  18 

The  Visitors  19 

Autumn  Days  20 

Woodland  Worship  21 

When  Days  Are  Long  22 

Out  of  Doors  23 

Make  Room  24 

The  Humming  Bird  25 

September  26 

The  March  Orchard  28 

The  Blind  Man  30 


To  the  October  Wind  Page  32 

A  Midday  in  Midsummer  33 

A  Slow  Rain  35 

The  Patient  Earth  36 

At  Dawn  39 

In  the  Crowd  41 

By  Fields  of  Grass  42 

October  43 

Winter  44 

The  Snow-Storm  45 

To  February  46 

Rest  47 

The  Shy  Sun  48 

In  April  49 

Apple  Blossoms  50 

The  Big  Moon  51 

The  Twins  53 

Autumn  Fire  55 

In  the  Grass  56 

The  Fields  of  Dark  57 

Children  in  the  City  59 

Where  Pleasures  Grow  60 

In  the  Heart  of  the  Woods  61 

Frost  62 

The  Chipmunk  63 

Give  Me  the  Poorest  Weed  64 

The  Weeks  that  Walk  in  Green  65 

Noonday  of  the  Year  66 

The  Wind  World  67 


At  the  Window  Page  68 

Come  Back  Again  69 

A  Rainy  Morning  71 

June  Apples  72 

Beginning  and  End  73 

Not  at  Home  75 

The  Wind  of  Memory  76 

Philippa  78 

The  Student  79 

Unspoken  80 

Under  the  King  83 

The  Secret  84 

Limitation  85 

Three  Years  Old  86 

Sometime,  I  Fear  88 

Joy  89 

In  the  Dark  91 

Words  92 

The  Wind  of  Death  93 


The  House  of  the  Trees 


The  House  of  the  Trees 

OPE  your  doors  and  take  me  in, 
Spirit  of  the  wood ; 
Wash  me  clean  of  dust  and  din, 
Clothe  me  in  your  mood. 

Take  me  from  the  noisy  light 

To  the  sunless  peace, 
Where  at  midday  standeth  Night, 

Signing  Toil's  release. 

All  your  dusky  twilight  stores 

To  my  senses  give ; 
Take  me  in  and  lock  the  doors, 

Show  me  how  to  live. 

Lift  your  leafy  roof  for  me, 
Part  your  yielding  Avails, 

Let  me  wander  lingeringly 
Through  your  scented  halls. 

Ope  your  doors  and  take  me  in, 

Spirit  of  the  wood  ; 
Take  me  —  make  me  next  of  kin 

To  your  leafy  brood. 


The  Sun  on  the  Trees 

THE  sun  within  the  leafy  woods 
Is  like  a  midday  moon, 
So  soft  upon  these  solitudes 
Is  bent  the  face  of  noon. 

Loosed  from  the  outside  summer  blaze 

A  few  gold  arrows  stray ; 
A  vagrant  brilliance  droops  or  plays 

Through  all  the  dusky  day. 

The  gray  trunk  feels  a  touch  of  light, 
While,  where  dead  leaves  are  deep, 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  golden  white 
Lies  like  a  soul  asleep. 

And  just  beyond  dank-rooted  ferns, 
Where  darkening  hemlocks  sigh 

And  leaves  are  dim,  the  bare  road  burns 
Beneath  a  dazzling  sky. 


Moonlight 


WHEN  I  see  the  ghost  of  night 
Stealing  through  my  window-pane, 
Silken  sleep  and  silver  light 

Struggle  for  my  soul  in  vain  ; 
Silken  sleep  all  balmily 

Breathes  upon  my  lids  oppressed, 
Till  I  sudden  start  to  see 

Ghostly  fingers  on  my  breast. 

White  and  skyey  visitant, 

Bringing  beauty  such  as  stings 
All  my  inner  soul  to  pant 

After  undiscovered  things, 
Spare  me  this  consummate  pain  ! 

Silken  weavings  intercreep 
Round  my  senses  once  again, 

I  am  mortal  —  let  me  sleep. 


Pine  Needles 

HERE  where  the  pine  tree  to  the  ground 
Lets  slip  its  fragrant  load, 
My  footsteps  fall  without  a  sound 
Upon  a  velvet  road. 

O  poet  pine,  that  turns  thy  gaze 

Alone  unto  the  sky, 
How  softly  on  earth's  common  ways 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  fall  and  lie  ! 

So  sweet,  so  deep,  seared  by  the  sun, 

And  smitten  by  the  rain, 
They  pierce  the  heart  of  every  one 

With  fragrance  keen  as  pain. 

Or  if  some  pass  nor  heed  their  sweet, 

Nor  feel  their  subtle  dart, 
Their  softness  stills  the  noisy  feet, 

And  stills  the  noisy  heart. 

O  poet  pine,  thy  needles  high 

In  starry  light  abode, 
And  now  for  footsore  passers-by 

They  make  a  velvet  road. 
6 


The  Sound  of  the  Axe 

WITH  the  sound  of  an  axe  on  the  light 
wind's  tracks 
For  my  only  company, 
And  a  speck  of  sky  like  a  human  eye 
Blue,  bending  over  me, 

I  lie  at  rest  on  the  low  moss  pressed, 
Whose  loose  leaves  downward  drip  ; 

As  light  they  move  as  a  word  of  love 
Or  a  finger  to  the  lip. 

'Neath  the  canopies  of  the  sunbright  trees 

Pierced  by  an  Autumn  ray, 
To  rich  red  flakes  the  old  log  breaks 

In  exquisite  decay. 

While  in  the  pines  where  no  sun  shines 

Perpetual  morning  lies. 
What  bed  more  sweet  could  stay  her  feet, 

Or  hold  her  dreaming  eyes  ? 

No  sound  is  there  in  the  middle  air 
But  sudden  wings  that  soar, 


As  a  strange  bird's  cry  goes  drifting  by  — 
And  then  I  hear  once  more 

That  sound  of  an  axe  till  the  great  tree  cracks, 

Then  a  crash  comes  as  if  all 
The  winds  that  through  its  bright  leaves  blew 

Were  sorrowing  in  its  fall. 


The  Prayer  of  the  Year 

LEAVE  me  Hope  when  I  am  old, 
Strip  my  joys  from  me, 
Let  November  to  the  cold 

Bare  each  leafy  tree ; 
Chill  my  lover,  dull  my  friend, 

Only,  while  I  grope 
To  the  dark  the  silent  end, 
Leave  me  Hope ! 

Blight  my  bloom  when  I  am  old, 

Bid  my  sunlight  cease  ; 
If  it  need  be  from  my  hold 

Take  the  hand  of  Peace. 
Leave  no  springtime  memory, 

But  upon  the  slope 
Of  the  days  that  are  to  be, 

Leave  me  Hope ! 


The  Hay  Field 


WITH  slender  arms  outstretching  in  the 
sun 

The  grass  lies  dead  ; 

The  wind  walks  tenderly,  and  stirs  not  one 
Frail,  fallen  head. 

Of  baby  creepings  through  the  April  day 

"Where  streamlets  wend, 
Of  childlike  dancing  on  the  breeze  of  May, 

This  is  the  end. 

No  more  these  tiny  forms  are  bathed  in  dew, 

No  more  they  reach, 

To  hold  with  leaves  that  shade  them  from 
the  blue 

A  whispered  speech. 

No  more  they  part  their  arms,  and  wreathe 
them  close 

Again  to  shield 
Some  love-full  little  nest  —  a  dainty  house 

Hid  in  a  field. 


10 


For  them  no  more  the  splendor  of  the  storm, 

The  fair  delights 

Of  moon  and  star-shine,  glimmering  faint  and 
warm 

On  summer  nights. 

Their  little  lives  they  yield  in  summer  death, 

And  frequently 
Across  the  field  bereaved  their  dying  breath 

Is  brought  to  me. 


ii 


Twilight 


I  SAW  her  walking  in  the  rain, 
And  sweetly  drew  she  nigh  ; 
And  then  she  crossed  the  hills  again 

To  bid  the  day  good-by. 
"  Good-by  !  good-by  ! 

The  world  is  dim  as  sorrow ; 
But  close  beside  the  morning  sky 
I  '11  say  a  glad  Good-morrow  !  " 

O  dweller  in  the  darling  wood, 

When  near  to  death  I  lie, 
Come  from  your  leafy  solitude, 

And  bid  my  soul  good-by. 
Good-by !  good-by ! 

The  world  is  dim  as  sorrow ; 
But  close  beside  the  morning  sky 

O  say  a  glad  Good-morrow ! 


The  Sky  Path 

I  HEAR  the  far  moon's  silver  call 
High  in  the  upper  wold  ; 
And  shepherd-like  it  gathers  all 
My  thoughts  into  its  fold. 

Oh  happy  thoughts,  that  wheresoe'er 
They  wander  through  the  day, 

Come  home  at  eve  to  upper  air 
Along  a  shining  way. 

Though  some  are  weary,  some  are  torn, 

And  some  are  fain  to  grieve, 
And  some  the  freshness  of  the  morn 

Have  kept  until  the  eve, 

And  some  perversely  seek  to  roam 
E'en  from  their  shepherd  bright, 

Yet  all  are  gathered  safely  home, 
And  folded  for  the  night. 

Oh  happy  thoughts,  that  with  the  streams 
The  trees  and  meadows  share 

The  sky  path  to  the  gate  of  dreams, 
In  their  white  shepherd's  care. 

13 


Fall  and  Spring 

FROM  the  time  the  wind  wakes 
To  the  time  of  snowflakes, 
That 's  the  time  the  heart  aches 

Every  cloudy  day ; 
That 's  the  time  the  heart  takes 
Thought  of  all  its  heart-breaks, 
That 's  the  time  the  heart  makes 
Life  a  cloudy  way. 

From  the  time  the  grass  creeps 
To  the  time  the  wind  sleeps, 
That 's  the  time  the  heart  leaps 

To  the  golden  ray  ; 
That 's  the  time  that  joy  sweeps 
Through  the  depths  of  heart-deeps, 
That 's  the  time  the  heart  keeps 

Happy  holiday. 


The  Woodside  Way 

I  WANDERED  down  the  woodside  way, 
Where    branching    doors    ope    with    the 

breeze, 

And  saw  a  little  child  at  play 
Among  the  strong  and  lovely  trees  ; 
The  dead  leaves  rustled  to  her  knees  ; 
Her  hair  and  eyes  were  brown  as  they. 

"  Oh,  little  child,"  I  softly  said, 

"  You  come  a  long,  long  -way  to  me ; 

The  trees  that  tower  overhead 

Are  here  in  sweet  reality, 

But  you  're  the  child  I  used  to  be, 

And  all  the  leaves  of  May  you  tread." 


A  Rainy  Day 

IT  has  been  twilight  all  the  day, 
And  as  the  twilight  peace 
On  daily  fetters  seems  to  lay 
The  finger  of  release, 

So,  needless  as  to  tree  and  flower 
Seem  care  and  fear  and  pain ; 

Our  hearts  grow  fresher  every  hour, 
And  brighten  in  the  rain. 


16 


When  Twilight  Comes 

ALL  out  of  doors  for  all  life's  way, 
The  fields  and  the  woods  and  the  good 

sunlight ; 

And  then  in  the  chill  of  the  evening  gray, 
A  sheltered  nook  and  the  hearth-fire  bright. 

No  hearth,  no  shelter  attend  my  way ! 

Not  late,  dear  life,  linger  not  too  late ; 
But  before  the  chill  and  before  the  gray, 

Let  the  sunset  gild  the  grave-stone  date. 


Leafless  April 

LEAFLESS  April  chased  by  light, 
Chased  by  dark  and  full  of  laughter, 
Stays  a  moment  in  her  flight 

Where  the  warmest  breezes  -waft  her, 
By  the  meadow  brook  to  lean, 

Or  where  winter  rye  is  growing, 
Showing  in  a  lovelier  green 

Where  her  wayward  steps  are  going. 

Blithesome  April  brown  and  warm, 

Showing  slimness  through  her  tatters, 
Chased  by  sun  or  chased  by  storm  — 

Not  a  whit  to  her  it  matters. 
Swiftly  through  the  violet  bed, 

Down  to  where  the  stream  is  flooding 
Light  she  flits  —  and  round  her  head 

See  the  orchard  branches  budding  ! 


18 


The  Visitors 

IN  the  room  where  I  was  sleeping 
The  sun  came  to  the  floor  ; 
Its  silent  thought  went  leaping 
To  where  in  woods  of  yore 
It  felt  the  sun  before. 

At  noon  the  rain  was  slanting 
In  gray  lines  from  the  west ; 

A  hurried  child  all  panting 
It  pattered  to  my  nest, 
And  smiled  when  sun-caressed. 

At  eve  the  wind  was  flying 
Bird-like  from  bed  to  chair, 

Of  brown  leaves  sere  and  dying 
It  brought  enough  to  spare, 
And  dropped  them  here  and  there. 

At  night-time  without  warning, 
I  felt  almost  to  pain 

The  soul  of  the  sun  in  the  morning, 
And  the  soul  of  the  wind  and  rain 
In  my  sleeping-room  remain. 


Autumn  Days 

AUTUMN  days  are  sun  crowned, 
Full  of  laughing  breath  ; 
Light  their  leafy  feet  are  dancing 
Down  the  way  to  death. 

Scarlet-shrouded  to  the  grave 

I  watch  them  gayly  go  ; 
So  may  I  as  blithely  die 

Before  November  snow. 


Woodland  Worship 

HERE  'mid  these  leafy  walls 
Are  sylvan  halls, 
And  all  the  Sabbaths  of  the  year 
Are  gathered  here. 

Upon  their  raptured  mood 

My  steps  intrude, 
Then  wait  —  as  some  freed  soul  might  wait 

At  heaven's  gate. 

Nowhere  on  earth  —  nowhere 

On  sea  or  air, 
Do  I  as  easily  escape 

This  earthly  shape, 

As  here  upon  the  white 

And  dizzy  height 
Of  utmost  worship,  where  it  seems 

Too  still  for  dreams. 


When  Days  Are  Long 


WHEN  twilight  late  delayeth, 
And  morning  wakes  in  song, 
And  fields  are  full  of  daisies, 
I  know  the  days  are  long ; 
When  Toil  is  stretched  at  nooning, 

Where  leafy  pleasures  throng, 
When  nights  o'errun  in  music, 
I  know  the  days  are  long. 

When  suns  afoot  are  marching, 

And  rains  are  quick  and  strong, 
And  streams  speak  in  a  whisper, 

I  know  the  days  are  long. 
When  hills  are  clad  in  velvet, 

And  winds  can  do  no  wrong, 
And  woods  are  deep  and  dusky, 

I  know  the  days  are  long. 


22 


Out  of  Doors 

IN  the  urgent  solitudes 
Lies  the  spur  to  larger  moods  ; 
In  the  friendship  of  the  trees 
Dwell  all  sweet  serenities. 


Make  Room 


ROOM  for  the  children  out  of  doors, 
For  heads  of  gold  or  gloom  ; 
For  raspberry  lips  and  rose-leaf  cheeks  and 

palms, 
Make  room  —  make  room  ! 

Room  for  the  springtime  out  of  doors, 

For  buds  in  green  or  bloom  ; 
For  every  brown  bare-handed  country  weed 

Make  room  —  make  room  ! 

Room  for  earth's  sweetest  out  of  doors, 

And  for  its  worst  a  tomb  ; 
For  housed-up  griefs  and  fears,  and  scorns, 
and  sighs, 

No  room  —  no  room  ! 


24 


The  Humming  Bird 

AGAINST  my  window-pane 
He  plunges  at  a  mass 
Of  buds  —  and  strikes  in  vain 
The  intervening  glass. 

O  sprite  of  wings  and  fire 
Outstretching  eagerly, 

My  soul  with  like  desire 
To  probe  thy  mystery, 

Comes  close  as  breast  to  bloom, 
As  bud  to  hot  heart-beat, 

And  gains  no  inner  room, 
And  drains  no  hidden  sweet. 


September 


BUT  yesterday  all  faint  for  breath, 
The  Summer  laid  her  down  to  die  ; 
And  now  her  frail  ghost  wandereth 

In  every  breeze  that  loiters  by. 
Her  wilted  prisoners  look  up, 

As  wondering  who  hath  broke  their  chain, 
Too  deep  they  drank  of  summer's  cup, 
They  have  no  strength  to  rise  again. 

How  swift  the  trees,  their  mistress  gone, 

Enrobe  themselves  for  revelry  ! 
Ungovernable  winds  upon 

The  wold  are  dancing  merrily. 
With  crimson  fruits  and  bursting  nuts, 

And  whirling  leaves  and  flushing  streams, 
The  spirit  of  September  cuts 

Adrift  from  August's  languid  dreams. 

A  little  while  the  revellers 

Shall  flame  and  flaunt  and  have  their  day, 
And  then  will  come  the  messengers 

Who  travel  on  a  cloudy  way. 


And  after  them  a  form  of  light, 
A  sense  of  iron  in  the  air, 

Upon  the  pulse  a  touch  of  might 
And  winter's  legions  everywhere. 


27 


The  March  Orchard 

T  TNLEAVED,  undrooping,  still, they  stand, 
V^This  stanch  and  patient  pilgrim  band  ; 
October  robbed  them  of  their  fruit, 
November  stripped  them  to  the  root, 
The  winter  smote  their  helplessness 
"With  furious  ire  and  stormy  stress, 
And  now  they  seem  almost  to  stand 
In  sight  of  Summer's  Promised  Land. 

Yet  seen  through  frosty  window-panes, 
When  bared  and  bound  in  wintry  chains, 
Their  lightsome  spirits  seemed  to  play 
With  February  as  with  May. 
The  snow  that  turned  the  skies  afrown 
Enwrapt  them  in  the  softest  down, 
And  rains  that  dulled  the  landscape  o'er 
But  left  them  livelier  than  before. 

But  now  this  June-like  day  of  March 
With  patient  strength  their  branches  arch, 
Not  as  unmindful  of  the  breeze 
That  makes  midsummer  melodies, 


But  knowing  Spring  a  fickle  maid, 
And  that  rough  days  must  dawn  and  fade 
Before,  all  blossoming  bright,  they  stand 
In  sight  of  Summer's  Promised  Land. 


29 


The  Blind  Man 

THE  blind  man  at  his  window  bars 
Stands  in  the  morning  dewy  dim  ; 
The  lily-footed  dawn,  the  stars 

That  wait  for  it,  are  naught  to  him. 

And  naught  to  his  unseeing  eyes 
The  brownness  of  a  sunny  plain, 

Where  worn  and  drowsy  August  lies, 
And  wakens  but  to  sleep  again. 

And  naught  to  him  a  greening  slope, 
That  yearns  up  to  the  heights  above, 

And  naught  the  leaves  of  May,  that  ope 
As  softly  as  the  eyes  of  love. 

And  naught  to  him  the  branching  aisles, 
Athrong  with  woodland  worshippers, 

And  naught  the  fields  where  summer  smiles 
Among  her  sunburned  laborers. 

The  way  a  trailing  streamlet  goes, 
The  barefoot  grasses  on  its  brim, 

The  dew  a  flower  cup  o'erflows 
With  silent  joy,  are  hid  from  him. 
30 


To  him  no  breath  of  nature  calls ; 

Upon  his  desk  his  work  is  laid ; 
He  looks  up  at  the  dingy  walls, 

And  listens  to  the  voice  of  Trade. 


To  the  October  Wind 

OLD  playmate,  showering  the  way 
With  thick  leaf  storms  in  red  and  gold, 
I  'm  only  six  years  old  to-day, 

You  've  made  me  feel  but  six  years  old. 
In  yellow  gown  and  scarlet  hood 

I  whirled,  a  leaf  among  the  rest, 
Or  lay  within  the  thinning  wood, 

And  played  that  you  were  Red-of-breast. 

Old  comrade,  lift  me  up  again  ; 

Your  arms  are  strong,  your  feet  are  swift, 
And  bear  me  lightly  down  the  lane 

Through  all  the  leaves  that  drift  and  drift, 
And  out  into  the  twilight  wood, 

And  lay  me  softly  down  to  rest, 
And  cover  me  just  as  you  would 

If  you  were  really  Red-of-breast. 


A  Midday  in  Midsummer 

THE  sky's  great  curtains  downward  steal, 
The  earth's  fair  company 
Of  trees  and  streams  and  meadows  feel 
A  sense  of  privacy. 

Upon  the  vast  expanse  of  heat 

Light-footed  breezes  pace  ; 
To  waves  of  gold  they  tread  the  wheat, 

They  lift  the  sunflower's  face. 

The  cruel  sun  is  blotted  out, 

The  west  is  black  with  rain, 
The  drooping  leaves  in  mingled  doubt 

And  hope  look  up  again. 

The  weeds  and  grass  on  tiptoe  stand, 

A  strange  exultant  thrill 
Prepares  the  dazed  uncertain  land 

For  the  wild  tempest's  will. 

The  wind  grows  big  and  breathes  aloucl 

As  it  runs  hurrying  past ; 
At  one  sharp  blow  the  thunder-cloud 

Lets  loose  the  furious  blast. 

33 


The  earth  is  beaten,  drenched  and  drowned, 

The  elements  go  mad  ; 
Swift  streams  of  joy  flow  o'er  the  ground, 

And  all  the  leaves  are  glad. 

Then  comes  a  momentary  lull, 

The  darkest  clouds  are  furled, 
And  lo,  new  washed  and  beautiful 

And  breathless  gleams  the  world. 


34 


A  Slow  Rain 

A  DROWSY  rain  is  stealing 
In  slowness  without  stop ; 
The  sun-dried  earth  is  feeling 
Its  coolness,  drop  by  drop. 

The  clouds  are  slowly  wasting 
Their  too  long  garnered  store, 

Each  thirsty  clod  is  tasting 

One  drop  —  and  then  one  more. 

Oh,  ravishing  as  slumber 
To  wearied  limbs  and  eyes, 

And  countless  as  the  number 
Of  stars  in  wintry  skies, 

And  sweet  as  the  caresses 

By  baby  fingers  made, 
These  delicate  rain  kisses 

On  leaf  and  flower  and  blade. 


35 


The  Patient  Earth 

i 


patient  earth  that  loves  the  grass, 
JL  The  flocks  and  herds  that  o'er  it  pass, 
That  guards  the  smallest  summer  nest 
Within  her  scented  bosom  pressed, 
And  gives  to  beetle,  moth,  and  bee 
A  lavish  hospitality, 
Still  -waits  through  weary  years  to  bind 
The  hearts  of  suffering  human  kind. 


II 


How  far  we  roamed  away  from  her, 

The  tender  mother  of  us  all ! 

Yet  'mid  the  city's  noises  stir 

The  sound  of  birds  that  call  and  call, 

Wind  melodies  that  rise  and  fall 

Along  the  perfumed  woodland  wall 

We  looked  upon  with  childhood's  eyes  ; 

The  ugly  streets  are  all  a  blur, 

And  in  our  hearts  are  homesick  cries. 


Ill 

The  loving  earth  that  roots  the  trees 

So  closely  to  her  inmost  heart, 

Has  rooted  us  as  well  as  these, 

Not  long  from  her  we  live  apart ; 

We  draw  upon  a  lengthening  string, 

For  months  perhaps,  perhaps  for  years, 

And  plume  ourselves  that  we  are  free, 

And  then  —  we  hear  a  robin  sing 

Where  starving  grass  shows  stunted  spears, 

Or  haycart  moving  fragrantly 

Where  creaking  tavern  sign-boards  swing ; 

Then  closer,  tighter  draws  the  chain, 

The  man,  too  old  and  worn  for  tears, 

Goes  back  to  be  a  child  again. 


IV 

The  greed  that  took  us  prisoner 
First  led  our  steps  away  from  her ; 
For  lust  of  gold  we  gave  up  life, 
And  sank  heart-deep  in  worldly  strife. 
And  when  Success  —  beloved  name  — 
At  last  with  faltering  footsteps  came, 
The  city's  rough,  harsh  imps  of  sound 
And  Competition's  crush  and  cheat 
Were  in  her  wreath  securely  bound  ; 

37 


Her  fruits  still  savored  of  the  street, 

Its  choking  dust,  its  wearied  feet, 

Her  poorest  like  her  richest  prize 

Was  rotted  o'er  with  envious  eyes, 

And  sickened  with  the  human  heat 

Of  hands  that  strove  to  clutch  it  fast, 

And  struggling  gave  it  up  at  last. 

Not  so  where  nature  summer-crowned 

Makes  fields  and  woods  a  pleasure-ground, 

Sky-blest,  wind-kissed,  and  circled  round 

With  waters  lapsing  cool  and  sweet. 


O  Earth,  sweet  Mother,  take  us  back  ! 
With  woodland  strength  and  orchard  joy, 
And  river  peace  without  alloy, 
Flood  us  who  on  the  city's  track 
Have  followed  stifling  sordid  years, 
Cleanse  us  with  dew  and  meadow  rain, 
Till  life's  horizon  lights  and  clears, 
And  nature  claims  us  once  again. 


At  Dawn 


A  SPIRIT  through 
My  window  came  when  earth  was  soft 

with  dew, 

Close  at  the  tender  edge  of  dawn  when  all 
The  spring  was  new, 

And  bore  me  back 

Along  her  rose-and-starry  tinted  track, 
And  showed   me  how  the   full-winged   day 
emerged 

From  out  the  black. 

She  knew  the  speech 

Of  all  the  deep-pink  blossoms  of  the  peach, 
Told  in  my  ear  the  meanings  of  the  trees, 

The  thoughts  of  each  ; 

Explained  to  me 

The  language  of  the  bird  and  frog  and  bee, 
The  messages  the  streams  and  rivers  take 

Unto  the  sea. 


39 


Alas !     Alas ! 

I  have  forgot.    The  dream  did  from  me  pass. 
I  know  not  e'en  the  meaning  dear  and  sweet 

Of  common  grass. 

And  now  when  I 
Roam  this  strange  earth  beneath  a  stranger 

sky, 
Soft  syllables  of  that  forgotten  speech 

Faint  as  a  sigh, 

Come  back  again, 

With  sweet  solicitings  that  urge  like  pain, 
And  brood  like  love  —  as  full  of  light  and  dark 

As  April  rain. 


40 


In  the  Crowd 

HERE  in  the  crowded  city's  busy  street, 
Swayed   by  the  eager,  jostling,  hasting 

throng, 
Where  Traffic's  voice  grows  harsher  and 

more  strong, 

I  see  within  the  stream  of  hurrying  feet 
A  company  of  trees  in  their  retreat, 

Dew-bathed,  dream-wrapped,  and  with  a 

thrush's  song 

Emparadising  all  the  place,  along 
Whose  paths  I  hear  the  pulse  of  Beauty  beat. 

'T  was  yesterday  I  walked  beneath  the  trees, 
To-day  I  tread  the  city's  stony  ways  ; 
And  still  the  spell  that   o'er  my  spirit 

came 

Turns  harshest  sounds  to  shy  bird  ecstasies, 
Pours  scent  of  pine  through  murky  chimney 

haze, 

And  gives  each  careworn  face  a  woodland 
frame. 


BY  fields  of  grass  and  woodland  silences 
The  city's  tumult  is  encamped  around  ; 
The  jingling,  clanging,  shrieking  fiends  of 

sound 

Expire  within  the  wide  world-circling  breeze. 
The  soul  amid  a  multitude  of  trees, 

Or  grass  enveloped  on  the  fragrant  ground, 
Is  lifted  to  its  utmost  starry  round, 
And  listens  to  celestial  harmonies. 

From  this  unspeakably  divine  rebirth, 

Its   sordid   life   returning   shows    through 

rifts 

How  purely  spreads  the  sky,  how  musical 
The   streams   and   breezes   flow  across  the 

earth, 

How  light  the  tree  its  fruity  load  uplifts, 
How  easily  the  weed  is  beautiful. 


October 


AGAINST   the  winter's  heav'n  of  white 
the  blood 

Of  earth  runs  very  quick  and  hot  to-day  ; 
A  storm  of  fiery  leaves  are  out  at  play 
Around  the  lingering  sunset  of  the  wood. 
Where  rows  of  blackberries  unnoticed  stood, 
Run  streams  of  ruddy  color  wildly  gay  ; 
The  golden  lane  half  dreaming  picks  its 

way 

Through    'whelming    vines,    as    through    a 
gleaming  flood. 

O  warm,  outspoken  earth,  a  little  space 
Against  thy  beating  heart  my  heart  shall 

beat, 
A  little  while  they  twain  shall  bleed  and 

burn, 
And  then  the  cold  touch  and  the  gray,  gray 

face, 

The  frozen  pulse,  the  drifted  winding-sheet, 
And  speechlessness,  and  the  chill  burial 
urn. 


43 


Winter 


NOW  that  the  earth  has  hid  her  lovely 
brood 
Of  green  things  in  her  breast  safe  out  of 

sight, 
And  all  the  trees  have  stripped  them  for 

the  fight, 
The  winter  conies  with  wild  winds  singing 

rude 

Hoarse  battle  songs  —  so  furious  in  feud 
That  nothing  lives  that  has  not  felt  their 

bite. 

They  sound  a  trumpet  in  the  dead  of  night 
That  makes  more  solitary  solitude. 

Against  the  forest  doors  how  fierce  they  beat ! 
Against    the    porch,   against    the    school- 
bound  boy 
With  crimson  cheek  bent  to  his  shaggy 

coat. 
The    earth    is    pale    but    steadfast,    hearing 

sweet 

But  far  —  how  far  away !  the  stream  of  joy 
Outpouring   from    a    bluebird's    tender 

throat. 
44 


The  Snow-Storm 

THE  great,  soft,  downy  snow-storm  like  a 
cloak 
Descends  to  wrap  the  lean  world  head  to 

feet; 

It  gives  the  dead  another  winding-sheet, 
It  buries  all  the  roofs  until  the  smoke 
Seems   like  a  soul  that   from   its   clay  has 

broke ; 
It   broods   moon-like    upon    the    Autumn 

wheat, 

And  visits  all  the  trees  in  their  retreat, 
To  hood  and  mantle  that  poor  shiv'ring  folk. 

With    wintry    bloom    it    fills    the    harshest 

grooves 
In  jagged  pine  stump  fences.    Every  sound 

It  hushes  to  the  footstep  of  a  nun. 
Sweet    Charity !     that   brightens    where    it 

moves, 

Inducing  darkest  bits  of  churlish  ground 
To  give  a  radiant  answer  to  the  sun. 


45 


To  February 

O MASTER-BUILDER,  blustering  as  you 
go 

About  your  giant  work,  transforming  all 
The  empty  woods  into  a  glittering  hall, 
And  making  lilac  lanes  and  footpaths  grow 
As  hard  as  iron  under  stubborn  snow, 

Though  every  fence  stand  forth  a  marble 

wall, 

And  windy  hollows  drift  to  arches  tall, 
There  comes  a  might  that  shall  your  might 
o'erthrow. 

Build  high  your  white  and  dazzling  palaces, 
Strengthen  your  bridges,  fortify  your  tow- 
ers, 

Storm  with  a  loud  and  a  portentous  lip ; 
And  April  with  a  fragmentary  breeze, 
And  half  a  score  of  gentle,  golden  hours, 
Shall  leave  no  trace  of  your  stern  work- 
manship. 


46 


Rest 

FROM  the  depths  of  dreams  I  am  drawn 
To  the  inner  depth  of  a  pine, 
That  near  my  window  keeps  the  dawn  — 

A  dawn  that  is  wholly  mine. 
Dream-rest  and  pine-rest, 

And  a  cool,  gray  path  between  — 
A  cool,  gray  path  from  the  night's  breast 
To  the  heart  of  the  living  green. 

To  the  depths  of  dreams  I  go 

On  the  sounds  of  falling  rain, 
That  in  the  night-time  gently  flow 

In  a  stream  on  my  window-pane. 
Stream-rest  and  dream-rest, 

And  a  cool,  dark  path  between  — 
A  cool,  dark  path  from  the  rain's  breast 

To  the  heart  of  the  soft  unseen. 


47 


The  Shy  Sun 

sun  went  with  me  to  the  wood, 
And  lingered  at  the  door ; 
One  glance  he  gave  from  where  he  stood, 
But  dared  not  venture  more, 

Nor  knew  that  in  the  heart  of  her 

Who  felt  his  presence  nigh, 
His  love  was  all  the  lovelier 

Because  his  look  was  shy. 


48 


In  April 


WHEN  Spring  unbound  comes  o'er  us 
like  a  Hood, 

My  spirit  slips  its  bars, 
And  thrills  to  see  the  trees  break  into  bud 
As  skies  break  into  stars ; 

And  joys  that  earth  is  green  with  eager  grass, 
The  heavens  gray  with  rain, 

And  quickens  when  the  spirit  breezes  pass, 
And  turn  and  pass  again  ; 

And  dreams  upon  frog  melodies  at  night, 

Bird  ecstasies  at  dawn, 
And  wakes  to  find  sweet  April  at  her  height 

And  May  still  beck'ning  on  ; 

And  feels  its  sordid  work,  its  empty  play, 

Its  failures  and  its  stains 
Dissolved  in  blossom  dew,  and  washed  away 

In  delicate  spring  rains. 


49 


Apple  Blossoms 

AMID  the  young  year's  breathing  hopes, 
When  eager  grasses  wrap  the  earth, 
I  see  on  greening  orchard  slopes 

The  blossoms  trembling  into  birth. 
They  open  wide  their  rosy  palms 

To  feel  the  hesitating  rain, 
Or  beg  a  longed-for  golden  alms 

From  skies  that  deep  in  clouds  have  lain. 

They  mingle  with  the  bluebird's  songs, 

And  with  the  warm  wind's  reverie ; 
To  sward  and  stream  their  snow  belongs, 

To  neighboring  pines  in  flocks  they  flee. 
O  doubly  crowned,  with  breathing  hopes 

The  branches  bending  down  to  earth, 
That  feel  on  greening  orchard  slopes 

Their  blossoms  trembling  into  birth. 


The  Big  Moon 

big  moon  came  to  the  edge  of  the  sky, 
And  pierced  me  with  its  dart ; 
I  strove  to  put  its  brightness  by 
Before  it  burned  my  heart. 

I  wrapped  the  windows  thick  and  well, 

I  closely  barred  the  door, 
The  light  of  my  penny  candles  fell 

On  low-built  wall  and  floor. 

The  little  room  and  the  little  light 

Began  to  comfort  me  ; 
But  I  heard  —  I  heard  the  golden  night 

Call  like  a  sounding  sea. 

I  knew  the  moon  swam  in  the  sky, 
And  the  earth  swam  in  the  moon ; 

I  went  outside  in  the  grass  to  lie, 
To  yield  to  the  deadly  swoon. 

My  soul  was  filled  with  white  moon  rain 

Till  it  ran  o'er  and  o'er, 
My  soul  was  thrilled  with  bright  moon  pain 

Till  it  could  bear  no  more ; 


I  stole  back  through  the  curtained  gloom 

Up  stairs  unlit  and  steep, 
And  in  a  low-ceiled  darkened  room 

My  hurt  was  healed  with  sleep. 


The  Twins 

i 

THE  old  man  and  his  apple-tree 
Are  verging  close  on  eighty-three  ; 
'Twas  planted  there  when  he  was  two, 
And  almost  side  by  side  they  grew. 
How  strong  and  straight  they  were  at  eight, 
One  leafy,  one  with  curly  pate. 
How  fine  at  twenty,  how  alive 
And  prosperous  at  twenty-five. 
What  health  and  grace  in  every  limb, 
Was  said  of  it  —  was  said  of  him. 


II 

Then  when  he  blushed,  a  marriage  groom, 
The  tree  outvied  the  bride  in  bloom ; 
And  in  the  after  years  there  played 
Within  its  ample  sweep  of  shade 
A  little  child,  with  cheeks  as  red 
As  had  the  apples  overhead. 
Her  father  called  the  tree  his  twin, 
And  surely  it  was  next  of  kin. 

53 


Ill 


The  best  of  life  came  to  the  twain, 
The  beauty  of  the  stars,  the  rain, 
Soft  stepping,  and  the  liquid  notes 
That  overflow  from  feathered  throats. 
Unto  the  soul  that  selfish  strives 
'Was  borne  the  fragrance  of  their  lives, 
And  anxious  folk  with  brow  down  bent 
Bathed  in  their  dewy  cool  content. 
They  held  their  heads  up  in  the  storm, 
And  gloried  when  the  winds  were  warm ; 
Their  shadows  lay  but  at  their  feet, 
And  all  of  life  above  was  sweet. 


IV 

And  now  that  they  are  eighty-three 
They  're  almost  as  they  used  to  be. 
The  blossoms  are  as  pink  and  white, 
The  old  man's  heart  as  pure  and  light. 
The  apples  —  fragrant  balls  of  flame  — 
Are  looking,  tasting,  just  the  same. 
And  just  the  same  his  uttered  thought 
Of  mirth  and  wisdom  quaintly  wrought. 
Through  all  their  years  they  kept  their  truth, 
Their  strength,  and  that  sweet  look  of  youth. 

54 


Autumn  Fire 


THE  fires  of  Autumn  are  burning  high  ; 
Bright  the  trees  in  the  woods  are  blaz- 
ing— 
A  wall  of  flame  from  the  brilliant  sky 

Down  to  the  fields  where  the  cattle  are 

grazing. 
O  the  warm,  warm  end  of  the  year  ! 

Even  the  shrubs  their  red  hearts  render ; 
All  the  bushes  are  bright  with  cheer 

And  the  tamest  vine  has  a  touch  of  splen- 
dor. 

The  fires  of  Autumn  are  burning  low ; 

Blow,  ye  winds,  and  cease  not  blowing ! 
Blow  the  flames  to  a  ruddier  show, 

Heap  the  coals  to  a  hotter  glowing. 
Ah,  the  chill,  chill  end  of  the  year  ! 

Naught  is  left  but  a  few  leaf  flashes  ; 
White  is  the  death  stone,  white  and  drear, 

Over  a  desolate  world  of  ashes. 


55 


In  the  Grass 


FACE  downward  on  the  grass  in  reverie, 
I  found  how  cool  and  sweet 
Are  the  green  glooms  that  often  thoughtlessly 
I  tread  beneath  my  feet. 

In  this  strange  mimic  wood  where  grasses 
lean  — 

Elf  trees  untouched  of  bark  — 
I  heard  the  hum  of  insects,  saw  the  sheen 

Of  sunlight  framing  dark, 

And  felt  with  thoughts  I  cannot  understand, 
And  know  not  how  to  speak, 

A  daisy  reaching  up  its  little  hand 
To  lay  it  on  my  cheek. 


The  Fields  of  Dark 


THE  wreathing  vine  within  the  porch 
Is  in  the  heart  of  me, 
The  roses  that  the  noondays  scorch 

Shall  burn  in  memory ; 
Alone  at  night  I  quench  the  light, 

And  without  star  or  spark 
The  grass  and  trees  press  to  my  knees, 
And  flowers  throng  the  dark. 

The  leaves  that  loose  their  hold  at  noon 

Drop  on  my  face  like  rain, 
And  in  the  watches  of  the  moon 

I  feel  them  fall  again. 
By  day  I  stray  how  far  away 

To  stream  and  wood  and  steep, 
But  on  my  track  they  all  come  back 

To  haunt  the  vale  of  sleep. 

The  fields  of  light  are  clover-brimmed, 

Or  grassed  or  daisy-starred, 
The  fields  of  dark  are  softly  dimmed, 

And  safely  twilight-barred ; 


57 


But  in  the  gloom  that  fills  my  room 

I  cannot  fail  to  mark 
The  grass  and  trees  about  my  knees, 

The  flowers  in  the  dark. 


Children  in  the  City 

THOUSANDS    of    childish    ears,    rough 
chidden, 

Never  a  sweet  bird-note  have  heard, 
Deep  in  the  leafy  woodland  hidden 
Dies,  unlistened  to,  many  a  bird. 
For  small  soiled  hands  in  the  sordid  city 

Blossoms  open  and  die  unbreathed  ; 
For  feet  unwashed  by  the  tears  of  pity 
Streams   around   meadows    of   green   are 
wreathed. 

Warm,  unrevelled  in,  still  they  wander, 

Summer  breezes  out  in  the  fields  ; 
Scarcely  noticed,  the  green  months  squander 

All  the  wealth  that  the  summer  yields. 
Ah,  the  pain  of  it !     Ah,  the  pity  ! 

Opulent  stretch  the  country  skies 
Over  solitudes,  while  in  the  city 

Starving  for  beauty  are  childish  eyes. 


59 


Where  Pleasures  Grow 


WHERE   pleasures    grow   as    thick   as 
grass, 

And  joys  of  silence,  soft,  profound, 
Are  sweeter  e'en  than  joys  of  sound, 
The  long,  long  days  of  summer  pass. 

I  see  them  sitting  in  the  sun, 

Or  moving  river-like  between 

The  climbing  and  down-bending  green, 

I  watch  them  vanish  one  by  one, 

And  strive  to  clasp  them  as  they  flee, 
But  only  hold  their  shadows  fast  — 
The  summer  shadows  that  they  cast 

Upon  the  path  of  memory. 


60 


In  the  Heart  of  the  Woods 

I  LOST  my  heart  in  the  heart  of  the  woods ; 
It  stayed  there  through  the  day, 
It  stayed  there  through  the  solitudes 
Of  a  night  with  no  moon  ray. 

Through  the  day  so  dusty,  worn  and  sere 

My  heart  was  cool  and  free, 
Through  the  wild  night,  tempest-tossed  and 
drear, 

My  heart  slept  peacefully. 

I  found  my  heart  in  the  heart  of  the  woods, 

I  looked  on  it  and  smiled  ; 
And  over  it  still  the  woodland  broods, 

As  a  mother  over  her  child. 


61 


Frost 

WHEN  the  sun  is  growing  weaker, 
And  his  look  is  meek  and  meeker, 
Comes  the  frost  —  the  pale  betrayer  — 
Light  of  foot,  a  stealthy  slayer. 

In  the  night  abroad  he  stealeth, 
For  each  trembling  leaf  he  feeleth  ; 
Something  softened  by  its  pleading, 
Kills  it  not  but  leaves  it  bleeding. 


62 


The  Chipmunk 

TO-DAY  the  green  hill  was  at  strife 
With  me ;  it  robbed  my  feet  of  life. 
The  wind  that  loudly  speaks  his  mind, 
Said  in  my  presence  nothing  kind. 
The  sky's  clear  face  was  from  me  turned, 
Behind  a  cloud  his  great  fire  burned. 

An  exile  in  his  native  cot, 

"Who  finds  his  very  name  forgot, 

Was  I  this  afternoon,  until 

At  the  wood's  edge  behind  the  hill, 

A  chipmunk  flashed,  and  leapt  a  limb, 

And  took  my  heart  away  with  him. 


Give  Me  the  Poorest 
Weed 

GIVE  me  the  poorest  weed 
To  satisfy  my  spirit's  need. 
The  brownest  blade  of  grass 
Will  know  and  greet  me  when  I  pass. 

Of  their  own  feeling  wrought, 
They  live  like  simple,  vital  thought ; 
The  mind  could  not  invent 
A  better  thing  than  Nature  meant. 


64 


The  Weeks  that  Walk 
in  Green 

THE  weeks  that  walk  in  green 
Came  to  my  willow  lane, 
And  wrapt  me  in  their  leafy  screen 
Against  the  sun  and  rain. 

Then  far  and  far  we  went 

By  stream  and  wood  and  steep, 

Until,  all  love-worn  and  joy-spent, 
I  yielded  me  to  sleep. 

And  they  —  they  died  unseen  ; 

Their  ghosts  are  haunting  me  — 
The  gentle  ghosts  that  walk  in  green 

Through  vales  of  memory. 


Noonday  of  the  Year 

THE  streams  that  chattered  in  the  cold 
Are  sleeping  in  the  sun  ; 
The  winds  of  March  were  overbold 
Until  their  race  was  run. 

O  mad  with  haste  the  morning  went, 
But  now  love-warm  and  deep, 

The  fields,  their  first  ambition  spent, 
Lie  in  their  noonday  sleep. 


66 


The  Wind  World 

ALONE  within  the  wind  I  lie, 
And  reck  not  how  the  seasons  go ; 
The  winter  struggling  through  its  snow, 
The  light-winged  summer  flitting  by. 

I  am  not  of  the  cloud  nor  mold, 

I  move  between  the  stars  and  flowers, 
I  know  the  tingling  touch  of  hours 

When  all  the  storms  of  night  unfold. 

Within  the  wind  world  drifting  free 
I  hear  naught  of  earth's  murmurings, 
Naught  but  the  sound  of  songs  and  wings 

Among  the  tree-tops  comes  to  me. 

At  night  earth  stars  flash  out  below, 
And  heaven  stars  shine  out  above ; 
I  look  down  on  the  lights  of  love, 

And  feel  the  higher  love-lights  glow. 


67 


At  the  Window 

HOW  thick  about  the  window  of  my  life 
Buzz  insect-like  the  tribe  of  petty  frets  : 
Small  cares,  small  thoughts,  small  trials,  and 

small  strife, 

Small   loves  and  hates,  small  hopes  and 
small  regrets. 

If  'mid  this  swarm  of  smallnesses  remain 
A  single  undimmed  spot,  with  wondering 

eye 

I  note  before  my  freckled  window-pane 
The   outstretched   splendor   of    the   earth 
and  sky. 


68 


Come  Back  Again 

CHILD-THOUGHTS,      child-thoughts, 
come  back  again  ! 
Faint,  fitful,  as  you  used  to  be  ; 
The  dusty  chambers  of  my  brain 

Have  need  of  your  fair  company, 
As  when  my  child-head  reached  the  height 

Of  the  wild  rose-bush  at  the  door, 
And  all  of  heaven  and  its  delight 

Bloomed  in  the  flow'rs  the  old  bush  bore. 

Come  back,  sweet  long-departed  year, 

"When,  sitting  in  a  hollow  oak, 
I  heard  the  sheep  bells  far  and  clear, 

I  heard  a  voice  that  silent  spoke, 
And  felt  in  both  a  vague  appeal, 

And  both  were  mingled  in  my  dreams 
With  leaves  that  viewless  breezes  feel, 

And  skies  clear  mirrored  in  the  streams. 

Child-heart,  child-thoughts,  come  back  again ! 

Bring  back  the  tall  grass  at  my  cheek, 
The  grief  more  swift  than  summer  rain, 

The  joy  that  knew  no  words  to  speak. 

69 


The  buttercup's  uplifted  gold 

That  strives  to  reach  my  hands  in  vain, 
The  love  that  never  could  grow  cold  — 

Child-heart,    child-thoughts,    come     back 
again ! 


70 


A  Rainy  Morning 

THE  low  sky,  and  the  warm,  wet  wind, 
And  the  tender  light  on  the  eyes  ; 
A  day  like  a  soul  that  has  never  sinned, 
New  dropped  from  Paradise. 

And  't  is  oh,  for  a  long  walk  in  the  rain, 
By  the  side  of  the  warm,  wet  breeze, 

With  the  thoughts  washed  clean  of  dust  and 

stain 
As  the  leaves  on  the  shining  trees. 


June  Apples 


GREEN  apple  branches  full  of  green  apples 
All  around  me  unfurled, 
Here   where    the    shade    and    the    sunlight 

dapples 
A  grass-green,  apple-green  world. 

Little  green  children  stirred  with  the  heaving 

Of  the  warm  breast  of  the  air, 
"When  your  old  nurse,  the  wind,  is  grieving 

Comfortlessly  you  fare. 

But  now  an  old-time  song  she  is  crooning, 

Nestle  your  heads  again, 

While  I  dream  on  through  the  golden  noon- 
ing, 

Or  look  for  the  first  red  stain 

On   some   round    cheek    that   the   sunshine 
dapples, 

Near  me  where  I  lie  curled 
Under  green  trees  athrong  with  green  apples, 

In  a  grass-green,  apple-green  world. 


72 


Beginning  and  End 

ONCE  it  was  in  my  life's  beginning, 
Roses  were  tall  in  their  summer  beds, 
Dandelions  within  my  fingers 

Thrust  their  confident  golden  heads  ; 
Wading  waist-deep  'mid  the  daisies, 

Feeling  the  grasses  about  me  climb  — 
Thus  it  was  in  my  life's  beginning  ; 

What  have  you  done  to  me,  Father  Time  ? 

So  shall  it  be  when  life  has  ended : 

Roses  shall  bloom  above  my  head, 
Dandelions  will  know  I  am  lying 

Hidden  in  grass  from  foot  to  head. 
Hidden  in  grass  and  hidden  in  daisies, 

Over  my  breast  I  shall  feel  them  climb, 
Thus  it  will  be  when  life  has  ended  ; 

This  will  you  do  to  me,  Father  Time. 


73 


Not  at  Home 

THE  Weariness  of  Idleness, 
She  waited  all  the  day 
In  the  parlor  of  her  neighbor, 
The  Weariness  of  Labor  — 

A  visit  she  had  long  meant  to  pay. 

But  not  until  the  evening 

Did  her  hostess  come  in  sight ; 

Then  the  Weariness  of  Labor 

Explained  unto  her  neighbor 
That  she  lived  but  a  brief  hour  at  night. 


75 


The  Wind  of  Memory 

RED  curtains  shut  the  storm  from  sight, 
The  inner  rooms  are  live  with  light ; 
The  fireside  faces  all  aglow 
See  not  the  pale  ghost  in  the  snow, 
The  pale  ghost  at  the  window  pressed, 
With  the  wind  moaning  in  her  breast. 

She  sees  the  face  she  hurt  with  scorn, 
The  other  face  where  joy,  new  born, 
Died  out  at  her  cheap  mockery ; 
The  eyes  she  filled,  how  bitterly  ! 
The  head  that  drooped  beneath  her  jest  — 
The  wind  is  moaning  in  her  breast. 

Invisible,  unfelt,  unknown, 
She  lingers  trembling.     She  alone 
Notes  tenderly  her  vacant  place, 
And  sees  in  it  her  vanished  face ; 
She  only —  of  this  happy  nest ! 
The  wind  is  moaning  in  her  breast. 

Star-like  the  happy  windows  glow, 
Framed  in  with  mile  on  mile  of  snow ; 
And  from  their  light  a  thing  of  death, 
76 


Of  grief  and  memory  vanisheth, 
Her  sin  not  deep  but  unredressed, 
And  the  wind  moaning  in  her  breast. 


77 


Philippa 


A  GENEROUS  gentleness  that  flowed, 
Stream-like,  beside  a  dusty  road ; 
Gave  laborers  shade,  and  prisoners  sun, 
And  easeful  joy  to  every  one ; 
With  liquid  melodies  for  such 
As  worked  or  -wearied  overmuch, 
And  ministrations  cool  and  sweet 
For  fevered  hands  and  aching  feet. 

So  delicately  fair  she  moved  — 
That  stream-like  girl,  of  all  beloved. 
Along  her  path  no  grief  nor  care 
But  lulled  and  lightened  unaware. 
She  bore  the  sky  within  her  breast, 
And  child-like  winds  her  soul  caressed, 
Until  her  spring  of  life  was  dried, 
And  with  a  smile  Philippa  died. 


78 


The  Student 

student  sits  within  his  room, 
.  So  small  and  worn  and  white  ; 
His  lamp  flames  out  remote  and  strange 
Through  all  the  hours  of  night. 

And  all  day  long  within  his  face, 
So  small  and  worn  and  white, 

His  eyes  flame  out  —  those  lamp-like  eyes, 
So  weirdly,  strangely  bright. 


79 


Unspoken 


MY  lover  comes  down  the  long  leafy  street 
Through  tenderly  falling  rain  ; 
His  footsteps  near  our  portal  veer, 
Go  past  —  then  turn  again. 

O  can  it  be  he  is  knocking  below, 

Or  here  at  my  door  above  ? 
So  gentle  and  small  it  sounds  in  the  hall, 

So  loud  in  the  ear  of  love. 

But  never  a  word  of  love  has  he  said, 

And  never  a  word  crave  I, 
For  why  should  one  long  for  the  daylight 
strong 

When  the  dawn  is  in  the  sky  ? 

O  a  dewy  rose-garden  is  the  house, 

A  garden  shut  from  the  sun  ; 
The  breath  of  it  sweet  floats  up,  as  my  feet 

Float  down  to  my  waiting  one. 

But  if  ever  a  word  of  love  thinks  he, 
It  falls  from  his  heart  still-born ; 

80 


'Who  bends  to  the  rose  does   not  haste  to 

close 
His  hand  around  bud  and  thorn. 

The  beautiful  soul  that  is  in  him  turns 

His  beautiful  face  agleam  ; 
My  own  soul  flies  to  feast  in  his  eyes, 

Where  the  silent  love-words  teem. 

Our  talk  is  of  books,  and  of  thoughts  and 

moods, 

Of  the  wild  flowers  in  the  rain ; 
And   he  leans  his  cheek,  when  we  do  not 

speak, 
On  his  chair  where  my  hand  had  lain. 

Yet  never  a  word  of  love  does  he  say, 

And  never  a  word  crave  I ; 
For    the    faint    green     May    would    wither 
away 

At  the  quick  touch  of  July. 

And  at  last  —  at  last  we  look  our  last, 
And  the  dim  day  grows  more  dim  ; 

But   his    eyes    still   shine  in  these  eyes  of 

mine, 
And  my  soul  goes  forth  with  him. 


81 


For  though  not  a  word  of  love  does  he  say, 

Still  never  a  word  crave  I ; 
For  the  words  of  earth  are  of  little  worth 

When  a  song  drops  out  of  the  sky. 


Under  the  King 

LOVE  with  the  deep  eyes  and  soft  hair, 
Love  with  the  lily  throat  and  hands, 
Is  done  to  death,  and  free  as  air 
Am  I  of  all  my  King's  commands. 

How  shall  I  celebrate  my  joy  ? 

Or  dance  with  feet  that  once  were  fleet 
In  his  adorable  employ  ? 

Or  laugh  with  lips  that  felt  his  sweet  ? 

How  can  I  at  his  lifeless  face 

Aim  any  sharp  or  bitter  jest, 
Since  roguish  destiny  did  place 

That  tender  target  in  my  breast  ? 

Nay,  let  me  be  sincere  and  strong ; 

I  cannot  rid  me  of  my  chains, 
I  cannot  to  myself  belong, 

My  King  is  dead  —  his  soul  still  reigns. 


The  Secret 


SOME  chance  moment  life  confesses 
That  her  insect  nothingnesses 
Carry  honey  with  their  stings, 
But  't  is  only  to  their  kings  — 
Those  who  know  how  best  to  use  them, 
Those  who  know  how  to  refuse  them  - 
That  the  secret  is  made  free, 
And  souls  are  loosed  from  tyranny. 


Limitation 


BEYOND  the  far  horizon's  farthest  bound 
A  farther  boundary  lies  ; 
No  spirit  wing  can  reach  the  utmost  round, 
No  spirit  eyes. 

The  soul  has  limitations  such  as  space, 

Such  as  eternity ; 
The  farthest  star  to  which  thou  setst  thy  face 

Belongs  to  thee. 


Three  Years  Old 


WHAT  is  it  like,  I  wonder,  to  roam 
Down  through  the  tall  grass  hidden 

quite  ? 
To  feel  very  far  away  from  home 

When  the  dear  house  is  out  of  sight  ? 

To  want  to  play  with  the  broken  moon 
In  the  star  garden  of  the  skies  ? 

To  sleep  through  twilight  eves  of  June 
Beneath  the  sound  of  lullabies  ? 

To  hold  up  hurts  for  all  to  see, 

Sob  at  imaginary  harms, 
To  clasp  in  welcome  a  father's  knee, 

And  fit  so  well  to  a  mother's  arms  ? 

To  have  life  bounded  by  one  dull  road, 
A  wood  and  a  pond,  and  to  feel  no  lack, 

To  gaze  with  pleasure  upon  a  toad, 
And  caress  a  mud-turtle's  horny  back  ? 

To  follow  the  robin's  cheerful  hop 

With  all  the  salt  small  hands  can  hold, 

86 


And  plead  in  vain  for  it  to  stop  — 

What  is  it  like  to  be  three  years  old  ? 

Ah,  once  I  knew,  but  't  was  long  ago ; 

I  try  to  recall  it  in  vain  —  in  vain ! 
And  now  I  know  I  shall  never  know 

What  it  is  to  be  a  child  again. 


Sometime,  I  Fear 

SOMETIME,  I  fear,  but  God  alone  knows 
when, 

Mine  eyes  shall  gaze  on  your  unseeing  eyes, 

On  your  unheeding  ears  shall  fall  my  cries, 

Your  clasp  shall  cease,  your  soul  go  from  my 

ken, 
Your  great  heart  be  a  fire  burned  out.  —  Ah, 

then, 

What  shall  remain  for  me  beneath  the  skies 
Of  glad,  or  good,  or  beautiful,  or  wise, 
That  can  relume  and  thrill  my  life  again  ? 

This  shall  remain,  a  love  that  cannot  fail, 
A  life  that  joys  in  your  great  joy ,  yet  grieves 

In  memory  of  sweet  days  fled  too  soon. 
Sadness  divine  !  as  when  November  pale 
Sits   broken-hearted  'mong   her  withered 

leaves, 

And  feels  the  wind  about  her  warm  as 
June. 


88 


Joy 


WHEN  airy  joy  doth  hail  me 
I  follow  on  behind, 
And  lest  my  feet  should  fail  me 

I  follow  on  the  wind  ; 
I  hear  her  lightsome  laughter 

Go  floating  past  the  door, 
And  swift  I  follow  after 
As  she  flies  on  before. 

When  I  am  faint  and  falling, 

And  lose  her  skyey  wings, 
I  hear  her  liquid  calling, 

And  feel  the  charm  she  flings 
On  all  the  earth  and  o'er  me, 

Then  eagerly  I  rise, 
And  see  her  skirts  before  me 

Go  glittering  up  the  skies. 

The  best  of  life  would  daunt  me 
Ungirdled  by  her  grace, 

And  foreign  demons  haunt  me 
Whene'er  she  hides  her  face. 


Up  roughest  steeps  with  laughter 

My  airy  joy  doth  soar, 
As  wind-like  I  come  after, 

And  she  flies  on  before. 


90 


In  the  Dark 


ALL  in  the  dark  he  crossed  the  border ! 
All  in  the  dark,  for  the  lamp  of  faith 
Had  never  been  used,  and  was  not  in  order - 
So  all  in  the  dark  he  encountered  Death. 


Words 


I  LIKE   those  words    that    carry  in   their 
veins 

The  blood  of  lions.     "  Liberty  "  is  one, 
And  "Justice,"  and  the  heart  leaps  to  the 

sun 

When  the  thrilled  note  of  "  Courage  !  Cour- 
age ! ' '  rains 

Upon  the  sorely  stricken  will.     No  pains 
Survive  when  "  Life  "  and  "  Light,"  twin 

glories,  run 
From  the  quick  page  to  some  poor  soul 

undone, 
And  beggar  by  their  glow  all  other  gains. 

How  splendidly  does  "Morning"  Rood  our 

night ! 

How  the  word  "Ocean"  drowns  our  in- 
sect cares, 
And  drives  a  strong  wind  through  our 

housed-up  grief. 
While  "Honor"   lifts   us   to   the  mountain 

height ; 
And  "  Loyalty  "  the  heaviest  burden  bears 

As  lightly  as  a  tree  a  crimson  leaf. 
92 


The  Wind  of  Death 

THE  wind  of  death  that  softly  blows 
The  last  warm  petal  from  the  rose, 
The  last  dry  leaf  from  off  the  tree, 
To-night  has  come  to  breathe  on  me. 

There  was  a  time  I  learned  to  hate 
As  weaker  mortals  learn  to  love ; 
The  passion  held  me  fixed  as  fate, 
Burned  in  my  veins  early  and  late  — 
But  now  a  wind  falls  from  above  — 

The  wind  of  death,  that  silently 
Enshroudeth  friend  and  enemy. 

There  was  a  time  my  soul  was  thrilled 

By  keen  ambition's  whip  and  spur ; 
My  master  forced  me  where  he  willed, 
And  with  his  power  my  life  was  rilled, 
But  now  the  old-time  pulses  stir 

How  faintly  in  the  wind  of  death  ! 
That  bloweth  lightly  as  a  breath. 


93 


And  once,  but  once,  at  Love's  dear  feet 
I  yielded  strength  and  life  and  heart ; 
His  look  turned  bitter  into  sweet, 
His  smile  made  all  the  world  complete  — 
The  wind  blows  loves  like  leaves  apart  — 

The  wind  of  death,  that  tenderly 
Is  blowing  'twixt  my  love  and  me. 

0  wind  of  death,  that  darkly  blows 
Each  separate  ship  of  human  woes 
Far  out  on  a  mysterious  sea, 

1  turn,  I  turn  my  face  to  thee. 


94 


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